


Pillow Talk

by Ickleroonilwazlib



Category: The 100
Genre: F/M, Getting busy, and informative pillow talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 11:25:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5162111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ickleroonilwazlib/pseuds/Ickleroonilwazlib
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lincoln and Octavia continue to learn about each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pillow Talk

_“Marak hastreh_ ,” Lincoln sighs against her shoulder as the trembling throughout her body slowly subsides. Her tired body is a welcomed weight on top of him, a pillar to hold on to while the waves of pleasure linger and dies out.

“You said it,” she mutters, lifting herself off him and flopping gracelessly next to him.

She throws a leg over his hip and nuzzles her face on his chest, utterly content with the world. Everything is quiet; his little home is efficient in blocking out the commotion of the outside world and for that she is most grateful. There’s no looming war here. No threat of bloodshed when she’s wrapped in his arms, only heightened emotions she’s still discovering.

She starts to feel the sweat on her back and chest start to cool but her limbs are too tired to throw the furs around her. As if reading her thoughts, Lincoln does so a few moments later, settling in for the night.

“What does it mean?” she whispers though she knows there is no need to. There’s a calm she doesn’t want to disturb.

“There is no translation in English,” he answers after a pause, voice heavy with sleep, and she _feels_ the answer rumble through his chest before actually she hears it, “it’s gratitude to the gods.”

She hums in response, her fingers drawing lazy patterns on his stomach.

“How many gods do you have?”

Lincoln starts stroking the sweaty hair away from her face; the callouses on his fingers scratch at her temple but she doesn’t mind in the least. It’s familiar and it’s Lincoln and she finds herself always yearning for his rough touch on her sensitive skin.

“One God,” he answers shortly, “but many incarnations.”

“So…you pray to the one God or–or the other ones?”

He’s got a finger curling a piece of her hair near her face. He’s usually gentle but Octavia sometimes thinks he doesn’t know how strong he is, even during times like this, and she winces when he pulls particularly hard. He’s instantly apologetic, rubbing the offended spot earnestly, even as she laughs it off and kisses his lips to stop the remorse from spilling. She realizes her taste is still in his mouth and it causes her insides to curl pleasantly in her stomach.

“It depends,” he finally answers her, his arm flopping back down to his side and she’s sad to lose his touch. “Some clans have a preference to a particular incarnation---individuals do too. But you can pray to whomever you want. In the end, you’re praying to one God.”

She tries to understand but she honestly doesn’t. Why make it so complicated? Why not just pray to the one God? She doesn’t voice it however. Far be it for her to question his people’s beliefs.

Resting her chin on his chest, she looks at him curiously.

“Who do you pray to then?”

He smiles down at her, his hand returning to stroke her face and she rejoices at the motion.

“To whoever is listening.”

That makes sense, she thinks, satisfied with his answer. His fingers travel down her arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake, rekindling the fire in her belly.

“Let’s call to them then,” she whispers against his lips, breathing in the smell of leather and earth from his body and making sure they wake up every god with their cries.

When they separate once more, breathing heavy and hot, Octavia has him lie down on his stomach, much to his grumbling displeasure. She straddles him and traces the tattoos down his spine with her lips, on his ribs, on the right side of his head and neck, kissing, licking, using all her senses to absorb as much of him as she can.

The symbols on his head and neck are protection against malevolent spirits, she learns. They serve as a barrier so he won’t be overpowered by otherworldly entities; it’s something his clan is very cautious of. They know the reapers, more animals than humans, and the mutants that are scattered across their land. These tattoos were hand-pricked across his skin to the sound of beating drums, to drive evil spirits away, and the chants of the elders echoing through the trees. They only took one night to complete.

The ringed tattoos on his left arm were part of his initiation rite into the clan when he came of age. The thickest ring marked him as an adult within the society, sealed with his oath of loyalty to the commander until death took him. The ones below marked him a warrior when he completed his training and bought home his first kill. He bore the mark of his teacher within the ring of tattoos, he reveals to her, something he’s particularly proud of. The rest are his kills. She decidedly moves on.

She particularly likes the ones down his spine. He admits these were the most painful to go through but also the ones that he likes the most. It came to him in a dream, he said, where a river was running through his spine, his body turned into the earth. When he woke, he could still feel the rushing of water down his body, snaking around his spine until it finally settled down in his lower back. The spiritual leader insisted these were images from the gods, a vision of change in his life, and it would be to his benefit to heed their calls. The marks took months to complete but he was thankful for them.

“Why?” she asks, tracing the ink with her finger. They are a little rough to the touch but not much different than the rest of his skin.

“You came along a few moons after,” he responds, his voice slightly muffled against the furs. She wants to say something snarky or playful but there’s a knot lodged in her throat and all she can do is kiss the shell of his ear.

It doesn’t take long for Octavia to find herself with her back against the furs, his lips trailing a line of fire down her chest. She thinks of her life back at the Ark—or rather, what she thought of as a life. Compared to what she had now, she didn’t think she had lived at all until she landed on Earth. Despite the constant dangers and looming risks, Octavia would never give up what she had now.

Wouldn’t give him up.

And for that…

“ _Marak hastreh_.”


End file.
